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Friday… ridiculous… shots… new friends… all in media, various forms… causing me to sleep all day and drink mango juice on Saturday. When drinking beer I never feel like eating and the result is bad. I think I had five pints, plus most of a ceasar, plus five shots, half a chicken finger and some barbeque sauce. Lights, out.

Saturday. Bourgeoisie, auction and free champagne thing, entertained by musicians in every room. I straightened my hair for the first time in maybe two years and wore the little black dress. Made a note to give away the shoes I was wearing as the straps cut into flesh over several hours. Felt bloated from beer the night before, too bloated to enjoy the little cups of lobster and prime rib being ferried around. Eating shellfish this far from ocean, as weird as straightening my hair.

There’s nothing to miss about that scene but it’s been interesting to observe and investigate from the inside, to be a patron. A bit, to see what blending in might feel like, if it is possible. In some ways, answering the question: are these people any better than the rest? Are the parties more fun? Is the food nicer? Are the conversations more intelligent and full of the right social graces? Eh, not really.